


Playing With His Food

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Firsts [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, incredible amounts of sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco tries to conduct a shady business deal while Jean flirts like a dork: their first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing With His Food

**Author's Note:**

> [marco](http://karkats-thong.tumblr.com/post/76653582555/happy-valentines-day-to-all-of-you-sweethearts-3)

You’ll be precisely on time. You always are. It’s practically your trademark.

Even if it’s not _his_.

You’ve heard that there’s no constancy to him. Whether or not he chooses to sell is a matter of whim, whether or not he’s on time is entirely random, whether or not he comes alone is up to chance. The only thing you’ve heard about him that remains the same from deal to deal is that his style is exceptional.

You suppose you’re equal in that, at least.

You’re in all black and white: a white dress shirt, black pants, and a black suit jacket, with black gloves. You chose to avoid some of your more… ostentatious eye patches, instead choosing a black one with a white strap. You’d checked yourself in the mirror before leaving, making sure you cut a sharp, stylish picture, reminding yourself that this was a man whose only apparent concern was style, and that he could be intimidated just like everyone else.

You’d chosen to ignore the fact that giving yourself a pep talk in and of itself revealed at least a minor lack of confidence.

It wasn’t your fault, anyway. Really. Jean Kirschtein was well-known as a man with whom reason was impossible and useless. Money, for him, meant nothing. Deals were little more than games to him, not wasted time or money or unnecessary exposure. He was unpredictable, and little was known about him except the myths that had spread over the years. Whether or not you’d make this deal was not a question of money or need or compatibility; it didn’t rest on the impression you made; it had nothing to do with threats or offers. From what you’d picked up, it didn’t even have anything to do with whether or not he liked you. It was entirely random.

This deal was _not_ in the bag.

You entered the restaurant and spotted your table at the back, the one you used for every deal you made. This particular restaurant was your favorite; well-lit, public, loud, nice enough to flaunt your wealth but not nice enough to put anyone off. No cameras trained on you and no questions asked.

You made your way to the empty table, taking heart from the glances that caught you and stuck. You’re not quite as tall as some of your associates – Erwin, for instance, towers over most – but you’re not quite short, either, and this suit is one of your favorites, tailored precisely to your form. It makes you look sharp instead of thin. Your eye patch is almost like a threat, in this restaurant: in a place full of people who made their living causing pain, people who made their living by emphasizing their resilience to pain, a man who was missing an eye and still coming here to eat was Jesus.

You take your seat and nod at the man who pours water into your glass, magically appearing at your side like he’d been waiting for you – which, you suppose, he had. You’d made your reservation a week ago.

You sip your water and set it down. You’d rather not drink all your water before even making the deal.

A few minutes later, the door slams open, and a man in –

You can hear the chuckles rising from the diners.

You don’t blame them.

He looks like he got dropped in paint for a baby’s bedroom and forgot to wash it off.

He has a two-toned undercut: the bottom half is pastel purple and the top half is pastel blue. His leather jacket is pastel pink, with spikes covering the shoulders like he’s worried someone’ll go near him. His loose v-neck shirt is pastel green. His jeans are galaxy-patterned. His sneakers look like the combined efforts of three children and six different Easter egg dyes. Studs and rings outline both ears, and he has a tiny ring above one eye and another one in his bottom lip. A cross dangles from his left earlobe, and another hangs from a silver chain around his neck. Even from across the restaurant, you can tell he’s wearing eyeliner.

He doesn’t belong here.

The stewardess hesitantly points at you.

He turns without another word and heads towards your table.

Is that…?

But.

He pulls out the other chair and sits in it.

You almost want to tell him that Jean Kirschtein is coming and he can’t sit there.

The waiter appears – you swear he knows how to apparate – and fills Jean Kirschtein’s glass.

“You must be Marco,” he says casually, like he didn’t just wander into a restaurant full of people waiting for him to prove himself weak.

“You must be Kirschtein.”

He leans back in his chair and grins at you. “You can call me Jean.”

“I’d rather not.”

His grin is almost predatory when he replies: “Please. I’d really love it if you did.”

 _Really love it_. He sounds like he’s trying to get someone to come to his charity event, not trying to get a potential business partner to call him by his first name.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“It is.”

“Right. I presume you’d like to conclude the deal as quickly as –”

“What, no food first? What’s the point of meeting in a restaurant?” He pushes his chair back on two legs and catches the waiter’s attention. “We don’t seem to have menus.”

The waiter glances at you, and you nod.

“Yes, sir,” he says politely, and returns in seconds with dinner menus.

“Thank you,” you say as you take the menu.

Jean nods at him.

He’s unpredictable. One moment, grinning at you like prey; the next, drawing things out longer than necessary.

“What’s good here? Have you been here before?” He asks.

“I tend to prefer the filet mignon, but the chicken is just as good, and the pasta is delicious.”

His tongue flicks across his lips. “I’ve always been a meat lover.”

You suppress a chill that threatens to run up your spine. “Ah. Then the steak is probably your best bet.”

“I do love me some beef,” he says thoughtfully, glancing at you like you’re his meal.

It’s incredibly unsettling.

The waiter pops up like a jack-in-the-box. “Are you ready, sirs?”

“Yup,” Jean responds. “Poutine –”

“Large or small, sir?”

He glances at you. “You’re not lactose intolerant, right?”

You shake your head. “Why?”

“Large. And the filet mignon. Medium rare.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Bodt?”

“I’d like the filet mignon also, medium, please.”

“No appetizer?”

“No thank you.”

He disappears as fast as he arrived.

“About the –”

“No business over dinner, Marco. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that’s rude?”

“Dinner isn’t here yet,” you find yourself saying. Why are you saying that? Contradicting him isn’t the way to get him to make the deal. Granted, you don’t know how to do that in the first place, but there’s no way arguing with him will get you money.

But he laughs. “No. No it’s not. But do we really want to spoil our… _appetites_ with talk of money?” He draws out the word _appetites_ in a way that makes you worry you’re not talking about the same thing anymore.

You look down at your glass of water, but you have a feeling drinking would betray your nerves. So you glance up at Jean for a moment and ask: “What would you like to talk about instead?” before returning your gaze to your glass.

There’s a pause, and when you glance up at him to see what’s taking so long, he’s lowering his chair to the ground, looking at you with hooded eyes and a smirk, leaning forward and dropping his elbows on the table. “I’d like to talk about you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “About me? Why would I tell you about _me_?” No, no, no, probably should’ve gone with something humble, something that would’ve made him pity you and seal the damn deal. Why the hell would you go for something that sounds like you’re so far above his level you won’t even grace his ears with discussion of your shittiest hobbies? “Let’s talk about you instead.” That probably wasn’t the best way to fix it.

He doesn’t pull away, though, merely pokes his tongue out to prod at his lip ring.

Your stomach flips around like it’s going for the gold in the Olympics.

“What’d’you wanna know?” He asks. There’s an edge to his voice, and you can’t quite tell what it is. Playfulness? Danger? Both? Neither?

You’re walking on thin ice here.

You trace the rim of your glass with a finger. “Jean Kirschtein.” You let your tongue wrap around the name, carefully pronouncing it the proper way. “French, but with no noticeable accent.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Poutine isn’t a very American dish. It’s more often served in Canada – Quebec, really. It’s served in France, but even there, it’s not exactly ubiquitous. So where, if you don’t mind me asking, are you from?”

You look up at him and he holds your gaze while he lifts his glass, presses his lips to the rim like a kiss, and drinks.

Your eyes flicker down to watch his Adam’s apple bob once before running back up past his wet lips to meet his eyes again.

Shit.

He sets the glass down and licks a drop of water off his lips.

You almost want to sigh in exasperation. This isn’t even _fair_ anymore. He’s not even _trying_ to be subtle. He’s like a horny teenager who’s just discovered that he actually has sex appeal.

“I lived in Groléjac, France, until I was seven. Moved with my mom to Quebec, where I lived until I was thirteen, when we moved to Long Island, New York.” He smirks. “Does that answer your question? Is it my turn now?”

You snort. “What is this, 20 Questions? I ask, you ask? I’m not sure about you, but I know for a fact that I’m not fifteen anymore. I like to think a conversation can be held without setting out specific boundaries for _turns_.”

There’s silence for a moment, and you take the time to ponder the question: when will your brain come home from the war? Maybe it lied to you. It didn’t go to war. It just left, and it’s never returning. It took all your faculties of logic and reason with it. It never planned to split them half-and-half. It lied when it said it was getting a real divorce.

The smirk slips off his face.

That’s probably not good.

“All right, let’s do this like adults. Mr. Bodt, do you enjoy golf?”

“Not particularly.”

“Not very adult-like of you.”

“Depends on your definition of _adult_ and also the assumption that all adults are the same.” The deal’s gone by now. No point in holding back.

“Do you enjoy taxes?”

“Are there many people who do?”

“Do you think so?”

“Not in my experience.”

“When was the last time you did taxes?” He asks derisively.

“Last tax period.”

“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised.

“Just because you let _your_ … background activities make you a bad citizen doesn’t mean I do.”

He opens his mouth, presumably to spit a retort, but the waiter hops up like a bunny out of a magician’s hat holding an enormous plate of poutine. “Your order, sir.”

“Thank you,” Jean says perkily. He pushes the plate into the middle of the table.

“Do you not want it?” You ask.

He looks at you like you’ve missed something. You don’t understand why he’s just looking at you like this _now_ when you’ve been missing your brain since he walked through the damn door. “You’re having some too.”

“What?”

“They’re to share. That’s why I made sure you could eat the damn things.”

“Ah.”

“What, did you expect me to just order an appetizer and make you sit and watch me eat it?” He almost sounds indignant, like he didn’t work to build himself into a legend of manipulation and rudeness.

“I just… never heard that you were the kind of guy to share your food,” you say diplomatically.

“What _did_ you hear about me?” he asks. It shouldn’t be possible to ask that question seductively, but he manages it.

You choose your words carefully. “I heard that you were unpredictable. Inconstant.”

He snorts as he reaches for a fry. “Inconstant? What am I, the heart of a teenager?” He sticks his tongue out to catch a drop of gravy that threatens to fall off the fry, and pulls it into his mouth whole without even making a mess.

You try to think about the biggest turn-offs you’ve got – wispy moustaches, nursing homes, Shrek – but he sucks one finger into his mouth at a time, thoroughly cleaning each one of gravy, and even smelly green ogres can’t kill the uncomfortable tightness in your pants.

You’d like to think he doesn’t notice you staring, but there would be no point in taking so long if he hadn’t.

You sigh and pull off one of your gloves. Fuck finger foods.

You reach forward and grab a fry.

You know for a fact that you don’t eat it the way he did. He ate it like a sex god; you ate it like a guy with one eye and little to no depth perception.

“Ambidextrous?” He asks.

“How’d you know?”

“Couldn’t tell if you were a righty or a lefty, guessed both.”

You nod, and he drops the subject. You’d rather not discuss the incident that resulted in the unfortunate amount of scarring on the right side of your body, the loss of your right eye, and the inability to use your right hand for so long that you taught yourself to be ambidextrous.

He selects the longest fry on the plate and sticks it in his mouth whole.

You’re pretty sure that he’s just doing it to prove to himself that he can.

And where the hell is the fry going, anyway? He’s gotta be doing something with his tongue in there, it’s not actually possible to swallow a fry slathered in gravy and cheese _whole_ , that’s just not a thing that can be done.

You’re staring again.

“Last movie you watched?” He asks between fries.

“ _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_.”

“Tom Stoppard. Great writer.”

“You’ve seen _Shakespeare in Love_?”

“Of course, it’s a classic!” Is he leaning forward on purpose? He’s actually not eating anymore, just leaning towards you, elbows on the table like he’s interested in what you have to say. “You’ve read _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“I read it nearly every time I watch the damn movie.”

“It’s incredible, how Stoppard managed to take the lines from _Romeo_ and fit them into _Shakespeare_ without making them sound forced or contrived.” He’s actually grinning, a genuine grin, one that’s not meant solely to throw you off.

“And how he didn’t just manage to work in one play, but two. The reference to _Twelfth Night_ at the end – I always end up rereading that play, too.”

“Where do you find the _time_? I’ve read the plays a few times, but there’s no way I could read them every time I watch _Shakespeare_.”

You grin guiltily. “I don’t watch the movie too often.”

He sticks a fry in his mouth. “I wouldn’t either, if I read the plays every time.” He frowns. “I’m eating all the fries here, you’ve gotta eat some too.”

You comply and take one.

“They really do have good food here,” he mutters. “I should come here more often. Haven’t had poutine like this since Quebec.”

“It’s delicious.”

He grins at you as he pops a fry in his mouth. “Then why am I the one eating it all?”

You laugh. “Because watching you talk with your mouth full is killing my appetite.”

He winces. “Ouch.”

You wipe your fingers on a napkin. “What’s the last book you read?”

He grimaces. “Reread the _Odyssey_ and found out I _still_ don’t like it anymore than I did in high school. I’ve always liked Jennifer Egan’s _A Visit from the Goon Squad,_ though.”

“That book is pure genius. The way it all pulls together in the end, the emphasis on pauses –” you sigh. “It’s incredible.”

“I’m surprised you’ve read it. It’s not the most well-known book.”

“I asked my sister for a book about music,” you admit.

“And she gave you _Goon Squad_?” He asks with raised eyebrows – they’re blonde, you notice. You’re almost surprised he didn’t die them too.

“Wasn’t precisely what I was expecting, but I’m glad it’s what I got.”

He glances down at himself. “Did you say that about the book or about me?”

The edge in his voice is definitely playful, this time. “How do you know I’m glad you’re what I got?”

“You don’t look particularly unhappy. I notice you’re not arguing the part about not expecting me?”

“Most of the people who come here do their best to look dangerous.”

He looks you up and down, taking his time, taking in every inch of the ironed cloth encasing your torso. “You’re wearing a suit.”

“The eye patch usually counters that.”

“Usually?”

You shrug. “There’ve been a couple incidents.”

“I’m surprised they let you back in.”

“I provide most of their business.”

He nods.

The waiter appears to take the plate.

“Shit. I ate most of those.”

You giggle and decide to ignore the fact that you giggled. “It’s fine, I’m not a fan of finger foods anyway.”

“All food is finger food, if you try hard enough.”

“Even filet mignon?”

He laughs. “Fun fact, when my brother was little he gave up on utensils and ate an entire steak with his hands.”

You feel your mouth drop open.

“And it was cooked medium-rare, too, all bloody and everything, and he just ate the whole thing with his hands –” He throws back his head and laughs. “He was covered in blood, I thought my mom was gonna disown him –”

You watch him as he laughs, all traces of seduction and danger disappearing from his face, fading into laugh lines and an open-mouthed grin.

He could be laughing about anything, absolutely anything, and if he laughed like that you’d laugh along.

The waiter appears with the filet mignon, sitting in a mound of mashed potatoes and decorated with zucchini slices. You thank him and he disappears. It’s like he only comes into existence when needed.

“There’s a new Tom Stoppard play coming to Broadway soon,” Jean says.

“ _Arcadia_.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“It’s by Tom Stoppard, of course I’ve heard of it. It looks like it’s gonna be good, too.”

“It’s by Tom Stoppard, of course it’s gonna be good.”

You roll your eye at him and he laughs.

“It’s not _my_ fault you stated the obvious.”

“It’s not _my_ fault you asked a stupid question.”

He grins and raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, you win.”

“Does this mean the deal is sealed too?” You ask hopefully.

He groans. “Business over dinner? Really?”

“All right, all right, it can wait,” you acquiesce.

His eyes drop to his plate.

“Mashed potatoes,” you say thoughtfully. “They’re not really a finger food at all, are they. Regardless of how hard you try.”

He glances back up at you, eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t agree with that.” He dips his finger straight into his goddamn potatoes and sucks them off his finger like he knows you’re thinking about blowjobs and that lip ring grazing over your skin.

“Do you do this to everyone?” You ask.

“What?”

“What you’re doing. I’m not completely blind, you know, I’ve still got one good eye.” You point at the finger that just popped out of his mouth. “That.”

“Oh.” He grins. “No, I don’t do it to everyone. Why?”

“Then why are you doing it to _me_?”

“Because I like you.”

You feel yourself freeze up for a moment. “Sorry?”

He shrugs. “You’re interesting.”

You are? “Oh.”

“Would you go see _Arcadia_ with me?”

Would you – “Pardon?”

“Would you go see _Arcadia_ with me?” He repeats, like you’re a child.

“I – what?”

He rolls his eyes. “Marco, I’m asking you to go on a date with me. I’ve already got your number, I’ll just call you when showtimes come out and we’ll set something up. Yes or no?”

“I – but –” You’re stammering, that’s not good, maybe you should get a handle on yourself or something. Maybe not reveal precisely how nervous you are. That would be nice.

He stands suddenly, steps around the table, pulls your chair out, bends over, and kisses you.

His lips are as soft as his color scheme and his kiss is as rough as his leather jacket.

You can feel his lip ring pressing against your lips and the moment you part them his tongue sweeps inside, tasting you and trailing over the back of your teeth for half a moment before he pulls away and straightens.

“The deal is sealed,” he whispers. “Regardless of what you want or whether you come on a date with me. It’s done.” He turns away.

You grab his wrist and he pauses, turning his head so you can see his profile. “Call me when the showtimes come out.”

“Will do.”

You let him go and he saunters off, just as confident as when he’d arrived.

For all his talk about eating, he left his plate full.

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend all of the works mentioned in this.


End file.
